


Why Would It Bother Me?

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Homophobia, John is Clueless, John is not cluless in general, Johnlock Roulette, Just cluless that a homophobe is hating on them, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock messing with a homophobe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 21:52:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3666570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft sends Sherlock and John to Florida to do some field work for a case. They have to leave on short notice and First Class is fully booked. Their seatmate in Coach is a homophobe so Sherlock has a little fun at his expense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Would It Bother Me?

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed so please forgive mistakes.

The flight to Florida was long and dreadful. Mycroft had been unable to get First Class seats on such short notice. So – Coach it was. To add to the aggravation, a direct flight wasn’t available to northwest Florida so they had a layover in Atlanta.

Sherlock was folded into a window seat with John in the middle seat beside him. To John’s left, a corpulent American businessman reeked of gin, hogged the arm rest and spilled over into John’s space. The flight was full – not a seat empty. The flight crew seemed harried and distracted; the coach cabin was overheated and stuffy. John pressed against Sherlock to avoid the sweaty businessman’s encroaching shoulder. 

Sherlock looked the picture of misery, too tall for the pitifully lacking leg room and crowded right up against the wall of the plane. He plugged earbuds into his phone as soon as the plane left the gate and cranked the volume loud enough to drown out the din of conversation. _The Academy by Request, Academy of Saint Martin In The Fields Orchestra, conducted by Sir Neville Marriner_ ; a compilation of some of his favorite classical pieces executed flawlessly by one of the world’s finest chamber orchestras. Beside him, John plugged earbuds into his phone and took out a book. 

“What are you listening to?” Sherlock asked.

“Foo Fighters new release – Sonic Highways,” John replied.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock hummed, pretending to have an idea what John was talking about.

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” John grinned.

“Not a clue,” Sherlock answered. “Going to try to sleep. Goodnight.”

“Want a Benadryl? It will help.”

“No, I’m tired. I don’t think I’ll need it.” Sherlock yawned an honest-to-goodness yawn. He would like to have stretched but it was out of the question in his present accommodations.

John smiled fondly. “OK, it’s in the front pocket of my bag under the seat. If you can’t fall asleep just help yourself.” John closed his eyes and laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. The book remained closed in his lap.

Sherlock observed the cabin through slitted eyelids. He often found air travel overwhelming – too many people, too much noise. And coach was its own special circle of hell. The music flooding his senses helped. He narrowed his focus to the overweight man to John’s left. _In London for five days - business trip – did not close the deal – afraid he’ll be sacked – several harried telephone conversations with his boss – happy to be going home to Indiana to his wife and children – especially the wife’s cooking – two children, boy 9 and girl 7 – doesn’t know the wife is having an affair with the kids’ dentist – no, the kids’ orthodontist. (Stupid Americans, obsessed with straightening children’s teeth.) Undiagnosed stomach ulcer aggravated by failed business deal – also aggravated by too much fried food and alcohol – weak arches, needs orthotics in his shoes to correct ankle pronation – hip pain caused by the pronation._

Sherlock sighed, wondering if he should tell the man that simple inserts in his shoes would cure his hip pain. Then he noticed how the man’s shoulder, arm and leg were crowding John, and the curled-upper-lip-my-god-are-they-gay expression on his pudgy face. _Fuck it, suffer your hip pain, wanker. I hope you need a hip replacement before you’re 50._

Sherlock tried to relax. He concentrated on the wonderful warmth, the cozy weight of John’s head resting on his shoulder, the faint herbal smell of shampoo in John’s hair. He dropped his head, lightly rubbing John’s crown with his cheek. 

John was out like a light; he’d taken Benadryl on the way to the airport to ensure he slept through the nine hour flight. Sherlock glanced side-eyed at the American and noted his my-god-are-they-gay expression had evolved to one of full-fledged disgust. Just to wind him up, Sherlock turned his head and planted a kiss on the top of John’s head. He also clasped John’s relaxed hand and laced their fingers together. John reflexively curled his fingers around Sherlock’s, the habit present even in his sleep. The man turned away, distaste written in every line of his figure. Sherlock smirked slightly. _I hope you have a heart attack by 50, too, arsehole. Keep up the fried foods – you’re headed for it._

 

Sherlock jerked awake when the flight attendant announced the final approach to Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. He gently stroked John’s cheek to rouse him. 

John blinked blearily, still under the influence of the antihistamine. “John, we’re landing in Atlanta. We have to change planes,” Sherlock coaxed. He noticed their seatmate glaring at them while pretending to adjust his carry-on bag under the seat in front of him. _Bigoted jerk._ Sherlock took John’s chin in his hand, planting a long, wet, loud kiss on his lips. 

“Mmmm … Sherlock, okay, I’m awake,” John sputtered against his lips. Sherlock glanced up, lips still locked with John’s, to see the American man rigid with indignation. Only then did he lift his face away from John’s. He gave the man a wink and his most wicked grin.


End file.
